


Not A Creature was Stirring: A Good Omens Holiday Adventure

by Conjure_Lass



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 21:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20378587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conjure_Lass/pseuds/Conjure_Lass
Summary: It's the Christmas after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, and Crowley and Aziraphale are celebrating together.Now with dinosaurs!





	Not A Creature was Stirring: A Good Omens Holiday Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there.
> 
> This is, admittedly, a very old fic from 2011. I wasn't sure I wanted to share it after all this time, but I thought...why not? Keep in mind it is book compliant only and all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Also, many apologies for not knowing how to make footnotes that automatically take you to their corresponding numbers. Sadly, you'll have to scroll.
> 
> Merry Christmas? :)

Not a Creature was Stirring: A Good Omens Holiday Adventure

Aziraphale has a voice like a retired boy band member, Crowley thinks; he scowls petulantly around his once perfectly white flat, now nearly overrun with what has to be the most gaudy, horrifically sparkly collection of Christmas baubles he's ever laid eyes on in his entire life. From long strings of off-color popcorn hanging awkwardly on the rhododendron to the veritable herd of glittering teal reindeer, there isn't a single corner, not one tiny centimeter that hasn't been transmogrified into a shiny pile of Christmas vomit. (1)

A rather inspired version of _O Holy Night_ drifts in from the kitchen, along with the unmistakable smell of burnt baked goods; Crowley contemplates again how he has gotten into his current situation. 

The exact moment of his acquiescence is a bit fuzzy, but he's certain his lack of sobriety must have been taken advantage of somewhere along the line. That's the only possible explanation he can come up with that would justify having agreed to spend Christmas at his flat with an angel. An angel! Why, it went against the basic nature, the very fabric, of the cosmos! Though, as Aziraphale hits a high note, his voice crisp like the first breath of morning, Crowley has to admit (2) that he may have had ulterior motives. 

But speaking of motives… 

“Look…,” Crowley whispers, casting a quick glance towards the kitchen and its domestically challenged occupant before reaching out to grab the branch of their as-yet-undecorated Nordmann fir. He glares as the needles prick his skin, giving them a slightly-more-than-friendly shake as he sets the fire extinguisher he's been holding down on the tree-mat. “We both know this whole Christmas thing isn't really my scene, but my associate is a bit of a fan of it. So…a good show, if you please.” 

A collective shudder -- from the rubber plant all the way to the shy violets -- resonates throughout the room, and almost like magic the proud evergreen seems a little taller, a little greener, and a lot more nervous. Crowley grins and pats the handle of the extinguisher. 

“Is everything…all right in here?” Aziraphale interrupts worriedly, poking his head around the doorframe to eye the Christmas tree. Crowley turns sharply on his heel, giving him an appropriately innocent look, and tries not to fidget. He must partially succeed, but the few moments that pass until Aziraphale seems satisfied that nothing too nefarious is going on are tense at best. He wipes his hands on his mistletoe apron (3) and beams.

“My, he is a handsome fellow, isn't he?” he coos, pausing to give the fir a proud smile before setting a tray of mugs and suspiciously unburnt biscuits on the coffee table. Crowley watches him settle himself on the floor near an overflowing box of ornaments, diving in until he's buried up to his angelic elbows in paper stars and garland. He passes by slowly on the way to the settee with the extinguisher, nibbling a biscuit that he’s now 100% sure is from Waitrose. 

“He'll do.” Crowley sips at the eggnog, finds it weak, and wrinkles his nose to miracle in a little more whiskey and a little less Christmas cheer. “Lovely impromptu concert, by the way. I was really moved. You're a shoo-in for the next round of The Voice.” 

A rosy pink blush dusting his cheeks, Aziraphale looks up from the twisted mass of red and green he's tugging from the seemingly endless black hole of Christmas trimmings and purses his lips. “Well, clever as that may be, as I recall your singing voice is somewhat reminiscent to a pod of mating sperm whales.” A pause, he looks guiltily back down into the box. “And you know I don't watch reality television.” 

“Oh, yes.” Resting his head against the soft white leather of the sofa cushions, now partially covered with a fluffy poinsettia afghan, Crowley's voice is simpering. “It's in the same timeslot as The Great British Bake-Off.” 

He smiles, utterly pleased with his own wittiness, and waits for the inevitable response…

…And waits… 

And waits…for something that apparently isn't so inevitable?

Being a demon and therefore inclined to do so, Crowley can think of a lot of things he dislikes. He dislikes being ignored, for example. And he dislikes being ignored by Aziraphale more than he dislikes being ignored by just about anyone else on earth. But what he _especially_ dislikes is being ignored, by Aziraphale, in favor of what has to be the most ruffle-ridden, sexually ambiguous angel tree-topper he's seen this side of 1974. 

“Looks constipated,” he remarks, determined to get Aziraphale's attention. 

Attention effectively captured, Aziraphale snorts softly and shakes his head, looking caught between the instinctive urge to laugh and the learned urge to argue. It's a good look on him, Crowley thinks, as he stretches out on the sofa. Though these days he would be hard-pressed to come up with any expression that he didn't like on Aziraphale. Call it what you will -- infatuation, unresolved sexual tension, OCD, the vapors -- but the fact of the matter remains that ever since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Crowley has been...feeling things. Strange things. Oddly pleasant, decidedly undemonic things he's pretty sure have been there all along but that he's never wanted to admit to.  
  
He's still not sure he wants to admit them, as they'll irrevocably alter his oldest (read: only) standing friendship, but the End of the World has already sort of done that, so he supposes the point is rather moot. 

“You would be too, if you had a tree up your bum.” Aziraphale sets it aside and takes up a string of fairy lights instead, shaking them roughly to free them from the jumble of knots they'de become over a year of sitting in a box. Another shake. Nada. One more jiggle just in case the first two were misfires. Nope. Looking a bit irritated, he glances up almost slyly and holds them out. “Fix these for me, there's a chap?” 

“Don't see why you can't just miracle them up there,” Crowley sighs, lamenting having become such a soft touch, but slithers down off the couch anyway, seating himself cross-legged on the floor. He tries not to notice how closely he's situated next to Aziraphale as he takes up the proffered decorations. 

Five minutes and twenty-two curses (4) later he's _really_ wondering when he became such a pushover. 

With strands of lights interwoven between his fingers like a twinkling cat's cradle, he stretches his arms wide in an attempt to untangle them and gives a tug. The action doesn't have the intended effect, but it _does_ make him lose his balance; he careens out of control and brushes against the body beside him before he even has a chance to right himself. 

And the world, consequently, stops spinning on its axis. 

Instantly. 

The actual sensation is not entirely explainable, but it's an almost physical thing where their corporeal forms meet, pure electricity, and Crowley finds himself unable to resist basking in it, from lingering in it just briefly enough that he can lie about his intentions later. Not that it will work, if Aziraphale's surprised-yet-knowing expression is anything at all to go by. 

_Too_ knowing. 

Jerking back, he tries to act annoyed despite the nauseating fluttering in his stomach, only to discover (to his _real_ annoyance) that the aftereffects of their marginal contact have left him utterly useless. Fixing the lights isn't going to happen. So, that being the case, he huffily tosses them into a pile of emaciated silver tinsel and proceeds to blink very deliberately until the tree is awash with white, twinkling light. 

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, but the tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth betrays his approval as he stands to tie red satin bows into the branches. 

A comfortable silence descends, broken only by some soft humming and the jingling of baubles as they're placed with delicate precision around the tree. Crowley watches it all with a detached sort of interest, like he's trapped in a cliché holiday special, before lifting the discarded tree-topper for inspection. Its pearly satin is smooth, edged in gold, and he smiles as memories of the last time he saw Aziraphale in such a uniform surface, unbidden, in his mind. 

“Now, that is a strange smile.” Said angel is regarding him curiously, a disco-ball ornament dangling from his index finger, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised. “What _are_ you thinking about, dear boy?” 

Making a quick decision, Crowley goes against his better judgment and tells the truth. “Just thinking about the last time I saw you looking like this.” He gestures to the tree-topper. “Remember?” 

“Of course.” His tone says the answer had been obvious, and after a brief moment where his eyes seem far away he speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was rather nervous that night…I practiced for months to sing for Him.” 

Surprised laughter spills from Crowley's lips. “Really?! But you're an--” 

“Angel?” Aziraphale's chuckle is wry as he shakes his head, sending his dishwater blond hair all over the place. There's a blush there too, lighting up his cheeks like a forest fire, and Crowley feels the almost irresistible urge to lick at it, to see how sweet it is. “I was always the one at the _back_ of the choir, you know, Upstairs.” 

Considering this new piece of information, Crowley tries to reconcile the conflicting images of Aziraphale in his mind, rolling them around in his head like a hard candy under his tongue. He tries to mix the memory of him singing at that very first Christmas, rightfully proud, his voice like a well-tuned bell, with the thought of him shyly singing in the last row of the Heavenly Host, not good enough to be up front where everyone could hear him. Not good enough? It seemed outrageous! The two images just don't mesh, they separate like oil and water, they won't congeal, and Crowley finds himself…curiously angry at that. Indignant, even. And it's upon feeling this emotion do a foxtrot up his spine that he comes to an altogether world-altering decision: that is _it_. No more. Sod it! He's had more than enough of their millennia-long dance. 

Not that either one of them are particularly good dancers, and perhaps that was why they'd been doing it so damned long. 

Springing to his feet before he can second-guess himself and moved by what can only be stupidity, Crowley closes the small yet meaningful distance between them. Not looking up until he sees the toes of Aziraphale's striped red and green Christmas socks, he struggles to find his voice, choosing instead to situate the topper at the very tip of the tree before turning to take a deep breath. 

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He tries again. Nada. One more try in case the first two were misfires. Nope. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! Say something! Say _something_!! 

“Well, I thought you sounded…very nice,” he murmurs at last (5), as nonchalantly as possible, but the words feel like broken glass, like they're cutting at his throat as they're forced out. He should be bleeding, surely. “I mean, for a madrigal choir reject.” 

It is a compliment. It is, for all intents and purposes, one of the first real compliments that Crowley has ever given his angelic counterpart. And Aziraphale's reaction to said compliment is, to put it mildly, priceless. 

He blinks, he fidgets, he does his best impression of a breathless monkfish, and Crowley thinks he may as well have smacked him in the face with said fish based on the way he was gaping. But something else happens when Crowley really _looks_ at him, at the way his brows are coming together in pleasure, at the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, at the almost delighted glint in his gaze: Crowley gets his confidence back. He finds himself inexplicably emboldened, buoyed, bursting with courage, feeling like he can take on the world! 

It doesn't keep his hands from trembling, though, which is a real shame. 

“Did you just…” Aziraphale is incredulous, but he doesn't recoil when Crowley reaches out to wrap a curly lock of slightly graying hair around his pinky finger. Instead, he seems to gather himself and answers with a smile that is at once utterly saintly and utterly human all at the same time. 

“Thank you.” 

“Uh-huh.” It is at this point that Crowley realizes how much sense it makes to draw the angel in with that curl. He finds no resistance to his gentle tug, after all. It's just sense. And within seconds he can smell that Aziraphale might have miracled a little more whiskey (6) into his eggnog too, and there's a glitter smear above his left eyebrow… 

“_Crowley_…” 

_Oh_, he likes the sound of that, that breathiness. They're _right there_ now too, and he's closing his eyes, and he's pretty sure Aziraphale is following suit and… 

“Crowley?” 

Oh, goddamn it. 

“What _is_ it, angel?!” he snaps, jerking back. But Aziraphale isn't looking at him; his wide-eyed gaze is elsewhere. His wide-eyed gaze also isn't wide-eyed for the reasons that it had been wide-eyed a moment ago. It is wide-eyed because… 

A brontosaurus is about to break through the sitting room window. 

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“What the fu--” Crowley isn't nearly so eloquent. 

He doesn't have time to finish that thought, because he's being angelhandled to the floor, grunting at the force of the full-body tackle and the burn of the carpet against his cheek where he skids to a halt. He's just thinking how he could really get used to having Aziraphale on top of him (7) when the world explodes all over the place, shards of glass and plasterboard raining down like snow to cover them in powder. Sneezing, he opens his eyes -- the ones he doesn't remember closing -- and looks up into Aziraphale's worried expression, glancing nervously at the arms wrapped protectively around him. 

He could not have felt more wobbly if he'd pranced around London in a vintage Gucci dress with pink leggings, stilettos, and a parasol.(8)  
  
“Gesundheit. Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, his voice a little shaky. He gives Crowley what is probably intended to be a comforting squeeze around the middle, but isn't enough to assuage Crowley's shock that is slowly turning into enragement.   
  
“What do you think?! There's a--_my plants_!!” 

Craning to get a better look at the rather enormous source of the trouble, Crowley wiggles to extricate himself from beneath the angel's bulk and the awkward tangle of their limbs. His plants! Dinosaurs may have just been a myth, one of Her better jokes, but that didn't stop this mythical bastard from brainlessly gnawing away at Crowley's houseplants, taking huge mouthfuls of his Asteraceae and Rosa Chinensis, stripping them down to nothing but their clay pots. 

“Oh, my.” 

“Yes, we've established that already!” On his feet now, he gapes and tries to collect his scattered thoughts. Calm, he needs to stay calm. What does he know? One: there is a dinosaur, an Apatosaurus, with its head half in and half out of his flat, knocking over his tables and sending the couch tumbling on its side. Two: dinosaurs did not exist. Three: this one apparently didn't get the memo, and if the rampaging and carrying on coming from outside is any indication, is not alone in its ignorance. 

Four: Aziraphale is running out the front door and is making his way down the stairs. 

“Oi! Where are you going?! What kind of angel runs away?” Crowley calls after him, but gets no response, leaving him to deal with Gertie. 

At first he's not quite sure what to do as it's not every day you get dinosaurs in your sitting room (9), but when Crowley notices it's getting dangerously close to the Phalaenopsis he’d been planning to give to Aziraphale as a gift, he moves forward to extract some unrighteous vengeance. The creature, now chewing rather confusedly on a fake poinsettia arrangement, blinks at him when he gets close, turning its bulky head to stare like a giant cow, its pupils flaring when Crowley reaches out to touch it.   
  
“Nice cow,” he murmurs, petting a surprisingly warm snout the size of his torso, and gives it a gentle shove. The Apatosaurus, rightfully confident that Crowley is no threat, does not give way. In fact, it barely even acknowledges his presence before turning back towards the rest of his beloved plants. He attempts to shoo it again. “Go away, go away.” 

A sound which can only be described as frustrated rumbles from its throat when Crowley plants the sole of his boot against its head, pushing with as much of his supernatural strength as he's willing to put forth. It snorts loudly in retaliation, sending torrents of mucus flying from its blowhole to the walls, the furniture, Aziraphale's Christmas decorations, and all over Crowley himself. The smell, like dirty swimming pool water mixed with baby shit (10), is almost overpowering, and it makes him withdraw, nearly trembling in utter revulsion. 

Oh, that was _it_. 

He fights the urge to gag as he takes a deep breath, snot oozing down the back of his neck like slugs. He needs to concentrate! Focus all his attention and force of will on making this stupid, smelly, fictional animal _go away_. He focuses. Nada. One more try just in case the first two were misfires. Nope. 

It's not working. That _isn't_ possible. 

He runs to the mangled hole in the wall where his window used to be, sidestepping Barney on his way over, and leans out through the opening to look for Aziraphale. “Where are you?!” Crowley yells, searching desperately before smiling in relief when he appears from behind a tree-trunk-sized leg. 

“My powers don't work on it,” Aziraphale shouts, looking disconcerted. He jumps back in alarm when he's very nearly dive-bombed by a huge pile of dinosaur manure. “It won't leave!” 

“I know! What the hell is going on?” 

Their eyes meet, thoughts intermingling, and the answer comes like a bolt of lightning: _Adam_. 

“Stay there! I'll be right down.” Crowley watches a long line of knee-high bipedal dinosaurs trot by Aziraphale, each sporting what appear to be different articles of lingerie on their heads and tails. Their friends across the street in the adult store are busy attempting to nibble a very large, very imposing, dildo. 

This is getting weird. 

Littlefoot nearly knocks Crowley over as he maneuvers by, and he casts one last forlorn look back at his decimated houseplants before navigating his way through the mangled flat. Aziraphale's startled yell reaches him just as he gets to the doorway, and his heart jumps to his throat at the same time he jumps down the stairs. Running out into the street, he gets there just in time to see Aziraphale being lifted partially off the ground by a large winged dinosaur, flailing his arms almost comically in an attempt to deter the thing from getting his shoulders into a better grip. It doesn't seem to be very effective, and when he spots Crowley approaching he reaches out for help. 

“Crowley! Get this bugger off me!” He wretches himself forward against the beating of leathery wings, but the beast has him firm. Panic making him irrational, Crowley rushes to grab Aziraphale's hand in both of his own, holding on tight and digging his heels into the ground. When he feels himself being dragged along the concrete by the creature's immense strength, he pulls back with everything he's got, startled to hear Aziraphale's sharp cry in reply. 

“Let go!” Aziraphale yells, digging his perfect fingernails into the palm of Crowley's hand. Crowley holds on anyway. “You're going to pull my arm out of socket, you fool!” 

“But--!” 

“Let go, I say!!” 

He does, and watches anxiously as Aziraphale rises up, his feet dangling like Loonette's off the big comfy couch. (11) “Let your wings out!” Crowley calls, cupping his hand to the side of his mouth. The angel shakes his head, his voice becoming more and more faint as he's carried up into the sky in the direction of Green Park. 

“Everyone will see! Don't worry, just follow us!” 

That seems like a very reasonable plan for someone being carted off by a giant flying reptile, Crowley thinks, and makes a quick break for the carpark. Forgetting momentarily that he doesn't need a key, he's digging around in his pockets when he hears a very strange groaning sound, like metal being squeezed and pressed in a compactor, growing louder as he nears the corner. 

His car is being molested. His car is being _molested_. 

Too appalled to speak, the triceratops which has apparently been mounting his Bentley for some time continues merrily, mating quite keenly with the back window of Crowley's poor vehicle. There are not appropriate words for something like this (12), and so Crowley doesn't try to find them. Instead he makes situationally appropriate noises -- shocked, traumatized, almost betrayed noises. He points, as though pointing will make the animal stop staining the seats with…he doesn't even have the emotional fortitude to think too deeply on what was dripping down the once-pristine leather. 

The triceratops looks up once, snorts indignantly, and gives the Bentley a particularly vigorous, enthusiastic thrust. 

Crowley decides at this point that his legs could really do with some exercise anyway. He turns around and pretends he didn't see what he just saw, despite the fact that he'll never be able to unsee what he just saw even if he lives for another 6000 years. 

Never. 

When he gets back to the street he can barely make out Aziraphale's form in the distance, but it appears that he's being lowered down across the river somewhere near the London Eye. That's where Crowley points his shoes. Of course there's no such thing as getting tired when you're a supernatural entity; he could have run around the world in one go if given enough time and a suitable pair of trainers. The problem is all the hilarious little distractions he keeps finding along the way. 

Demons are, if nothing else, insatiably curious. 

He feels a little thrill of joy as he sees a group of screaming carolers being chased through the park by a pack of small, frenzied dinosaurs with incisors that look like beavers on steroids. Serves them right! No less than they deserved for attempting to spread Christmas cheer with their off-key warbling. Nobody likes that sort of thing. 

A small child's wailing draws his interest as he's running through Westminster, seconds before the ground shivers beneath his feet. Pausing, he's about to seek out the source of the sound when the biggest set of teeth he's ever seen stumbles into the intersection, connected to what appears to be a tyrannosaurus rex. The great brute teeters unsteadily and then plummets to the ground with an earth-shattering rumble, attempting to rub at its huge maw with a hind leg that’s reminiscent of a dog scratching the top of its head. 

“Poor bastard,” Crowley murmurs, listening to it make rather pathetic noises as it rolls to and fro, a stocking caught on the razor edge of its canine. Getting a better look, he sees an entire Christmas tree stuck in its mouth, fairy lights dangling from its gums, ornaments popping each time it opens and closes its jaws, tinsel clinging to its tongue. Talk about getting Christmas shoved down your throat. 

Stepping in to help despite the fact that animals have never really been his forte, Crowley thinks back on the snot incident and hesitates…and then remembers that he has unearthly powers and very nearly dies of humiliation. He might not be able to do anything to the dinosaur, no, but the tree and its corresponding decorations disappear with a snap of his fingers, leaving the carnivore blissfully free of dental problems. 

Continuing on -- Aziraphale is probably wondering what the hell is keeping him -- he points back in the direction of his flat. “There's a great big, juicy, long-necked job right back there! Go get it!” (13)

Crowley gets sidetracked again watching a duck-billed dinosaur attempt to mingle with a large group of mallards in the park, but he does eventually arrive. Though when he does, he's rather put out to discover neither hide nor feather of the enormous flying chicken nor Aziraphale himself. He was certain they'd come in this direction! There weren't even any humans around due to the time, and so the entire area is quiet, free of noise. He feels entirely alone. And that usually wouldn't bother him, save for the niggling worry regarding his angelic counterpart. Especially not after…well…nothing really _had_ happened but things had been very _close_ to happening and that's enough for Crowley to be concerned. 

Not that he'd-- 

“Crowley, dear boy! Up here!” 

The voice is coming from above him, very faintly and rather far off, and for the briefest of instants he contemplates Aziraphale's corporeal form having been devoured and his disembodied voice speaking to Crowley telepathically from the Beyond. It takes a second to realize how daft this is, but when he does (and pulls his heart back up from the vicinity of his stomach) he searches and…bingo! Waving cheerfully from the topmost capsule of the London Eye, opalescent wings on display (14) and completely unharmed, is Aziraphale. 

Crowley thinks he could at least have had the courtesy to look a bit more damsel in distress-ish, but one takes what one can get. 

Some snakes are very good climbers. The flying tree snake, for example, is able to climb vertically up nearly any tree, propelling itself from branch to branch by flattening its belly and gliding through the air. Crowley is no flying tree snake. He's always been a ground serpent by trade, but in this case, gazing up at the tiny figure in the distance, he thinks he can make an exception. 

Passing through the gates, he climbs onto the lowest hanging capsule and jumps up into the guts of the Eye. It takes a moment to gain his bearings, but gravity is soon melting around his feet, holding him firmly to the metal as he saunters along the circumference of the wheel. His hair falls back from his face when he strolls up the sideways bend, and he grins into the cloudy night sky until all of London is flipped upside down and he has to look “down” to look “up” at Aziraphale. 

“Show-off.” Chuckling, Aziraphale draws his knees up to himself as Crowley sits nearby, looking altogether very young and outwardly innocent. The picture inspires an odd twist of nostalgia in Crowley, tightens his chest to the point where he feels he has to say something to dissipate the soppy feeling. 

“You're too easily impressed.” 

“Only as far as you're concerned.” Aziraphale graces him with a sidelong glance that could mean anything from “kiss me, you fool” to “we'll be best mates forever, old chap” (15) before looking out on the city. It might have been a very romantic view but for the incessant screaming and hollering of Londoners and the occasional roar of some large beast in the distance. Instead the two of them huddle against the cold, watching it all wrapped in an awkward silence; Crowley doesn't know how in the hell humans stand this kind of emotional ambiguity every single day of their lives. 

“Adam?” _Does this feel weird_? 

“Adam.” _Yes, this is very weird_. 

As if on cue, enormous sparks fly into the sky like morbid fairy lights, gracefully arcing somewhere around Harrow until a whole section of the city flickers twice and then goes dark. (16) Silence. More silence. Strange, burgeoning silence that culminates in the two of them turning their heads at the same time to regard each other thoughtfully, slow smiles building on their faces until the dam of awkwardness breaks, letting raucous giggles flow from their lips. 

“Are you all right?” Crowley asks, sniggering and wiping tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Nodding, Aziraphale clears his throat. “Fine, fine. The bloody great thing dropped me here, pecked me a bit, and was off again. I suppose I mustn't taste very good.” 

Sensing an opportunity, Crowley leans in a very few, if very meaningful, centimeters. (17) “Oh, really?” This is the part, he reasons, where any respectable demon would take the obvious opening and dive right in. Simple, right? But Crowley is about as far from a respectable demon as one can get, and his courage is failing him again in the face of the eddying swirl of Aziraphale's periwinkle gaze. 

Retreating and disappointed, he takes a deep breath, the heat of it fogging the frigid air between them. 

Or at least he thought he was going to retreat. He was definitely thinking about it. But Aziraphale's fingers, now buried securely in the hair behind Crowley's ear, are convincing him somewhat that he might be wrong. 

He's never been so glad to be wrong. 

Aziraphale's grip is clumsy, a bit rougher than his own had been, but that's probably due to an endearing lack of real-world experience more so than anything intentional. It doesn't matter. Even with their positions reversed, Crowley sees none of his own earlier uncertainty on Aziraphale's face, sees no doubt or indecision in the impish curve of his lips, in the fondness of his expression. What Crowley does see is something altogether more eloquently put, despite the lack of words. 

And clearly this is the part where Crowley laughs and ruins the moment entirely. 

“My _dear_.” Aziraphale's eyes crinkle good-naturedly at the corners as he sidles in closer, seemingly undeterred by Crowley's faux pas. “I believe we were interrupted earlier…” 

“We were.” 

“Would you care to continue or shall we sit up here all night freezing our feathers off?” 

Angels should _not_ be this bold, but then…Aziraphale is like no other angel Crowley has ever met. So, green light means go, and he resolves to be unlike any other _demon_ he's ever met and leaps into the sentimental drivel feet first. He can always claim Christmas poisoning at a later date should anyone ask. 

It is not a graceful thing, the lurch, but Crowley feels it's the best he can do under the circumstances. 

Besides, it achieves the desired effect; his numb palms cup the back of Aziraphale's jaw line, their cheeks press together like a single seam. Everything is all right, it's fine like this, and when he closes his eyes, it's all there behind his lids: the scent, the trembling breath, the shuddering, and that delicious feeling of warm, warm, warmth. Warmth enough for Crowley to bask in forever. Everything is right there, despite his fumbling romantic mishaps. 

“I'll show you freezing,” he murmurs, his energy crackling around them as he molds the world to his whims. 

Or at least that's what he is trying to do. The first drops of sleet pattering against their heads is admittedly…not what he'd been planning. Not at all. Dammit, can he do nothing properly tonight!? This whole wooing, lovey-dovey nonsense is really cramping his style. 

“Going for snow, were we?” Aziraphale's voice, only a notch or two above a whisper, is practically beaming with smug delight. And then he's easing them around, gently guiding things again, and Crowley mimics him instinctively. “You're losing your touch.” 

“Nah.” The rain and cold are seeping into Crowley's jacket but he doesn't care; he shivers as their mouths draw near. “Just distracted.” 

It's not a very well-organized first kiss, what with the dinosaurs bellowing in the distance and the first looters of the night prowling around the darkened streets, but from the soft sigh of pleasure Crowley feels reverberating against his lips and the arms wrapped tightly around his neck, he can't help but think that this is one thing he _just might_ have gotten right. 

Though sadly, it doesn't seem he's going to get the opportunity to test the theory any time in the next few hours; Aziraphale is pulling away with _that_ look in his eye. The one that says he's having nauseatingly angelic urges like helpfulness and random acts of kindness and generosity. 

“Well, my dear, we'd best get to tidying things up.” He stretches his arms above his head as though warming up for a long run. 

“We?” Crowley sniffs. “I don't recall offering to help. Dinosaurs rampaging through London? I'll get a commendation!” 

“You _do_ want to go home, don't you?” Aziraphale shakes out his wings, sending a torrent of water splashing into Crowley's face. 

“Well, yes, but--” 

“Than I suggest you get motivated.” Crowley shivers at the nearly scandalous tone of his voice. “Because we're not going back until you do.” 

“I'd say 'bah humbug', but Dickens was such an overpaid hack.” 

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.” 

And the sleet, when their lips meet again, turns to snow. (18)

~end   


Footnotes:   
  
1: Crowley had put his foot down at the life-sized, blow up nativity scene. He certainly didn't recall Mary having a rack like _that_.  
  
2: The admission was deep down, buried next to his love of The Daily Mail, strawberry trifle, and a morbid fascination with X-Factor USA.  
  
3: Aziraphale had subjected Crowley to many tacky Christmas aprons over the years, including but not limited to: the giant Christmas tree apron, the candy cane apron, the happy snowman with plastic snow globes for eyes apron, the fairy lights that really light up apron, and the sexy Mrs. Clause apron. Crowley had been personally responsible for the last one and had deemed the resulting smiting completely worth it.  
  
4: A few were _actual_ curses, one causing the entire borough of Bromley to inexplicably lose power for forty-five minutes.  
  
5: Exact time: five minutes, thirteen seconds. Aziraphale felt no need to rush him, as these sort of things require a certain level of patience.  
  
6: Aziraphale's cup had contained no actual eggnog and had in fact been comprised entirely of whiskey and Tia Maria from the moment he'd walked in the door. He'd been a bit nervous about spending the holidays with Crowley and was trying for a little liquid courage.  
  
7: Or under him. Or inside him. Or around him. Whatever he preferred, as Crowley wasn't picky.  
  
8: This is not entirely true, as Crowley _had_ pranced around London wearing a vintage Gucci dress, pink leggings, and three inch heels. The year was 1983 and his leg hair had never grown back properly. He'd thought he'd looked rather fetching, really.  
  
9: This was, by no means, the first time Crowley's flat had been infested by large, cold blooded, multi-kilo animals. This is, however, the first time they have been there whilst he had been sober. 

10: Yes, he knew what that smelled like.  
  
11: Don't blame Crowley for The Big Comfy Couch, it was Aziraphale who changed the channel guiltily anytime he visited.  
  
12: Actually there are, and they include (but are not limited to): “fuck, whu?, omg, omfg, my eyes; they bleed, cannot unsee, and whyohwhycruelworld”.  
  
13: Crowley later regretted this when upon going back to his flat they discovered the entire side of his building to be candy-coated with blood and random internal organs strewn about his kitchen and bedroom. Aziraphale, nearly inconsolable, held a dinosaur funeral and Crowley never admitted to his part in the affair.  
  
14: Even from this distance Crowley could see that Aziraphale's wings needed a good grooming. He resolved to fix that later when they were alone.  
  
15: It had actually meant, “will he notice if I reach into my apron and get a breath mint?” because Aziraphale was conscientious like that.  
  
16: Mostly this outage only affected areas in and around Harrow itself, but for some unexplained reason Bromley, despite it being on the other side of town, also lost its power for the second time that night.  
  
17: Exact count: 3  
  
18: God bless us, every one. 


End file.
